Autumns

The long grey afternoons that stretch out wide
Before the blackness of the frightened night,
When flattened shadows emphasize the light
That floats, directionless, almost implied
Rather than seen, inside the sky, and slide
Around the lampposts, not quite bright
And not quite totally turned off: they might,
In some alternative strange underside
To our own universe, be turbulent
Rolling with forked lightning, wild, extreme;
But as it is, their languor will prevent
The excess of imagination's dream
And curtail pure invention. They seem meant
To make extravagance blow off like steam.